


The Five Love Languages

by vindicatedtruth (behindtintedglass)



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-01-26 04:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12549368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/behindtintedglass/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: Harold finds it difficult to communicate the depth of his regard for John.  With a little research, he discovers that there are Five Love Languages he can try.But which one will actually work?





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Harold stares helplessly at the monitor of his computer.It’s difficult enough trying to communicate the depth and sincerity of his… _regard_.Not that he’s expecting anything to come out of all of this; it’s enough for him to be able to say it.To _show_ it.

He simply wants to get this _right._ Because this… this is much, much too important for him to screw up.To _lose_.

The Machine seems to have noticed her Admin’s distress lately, and has thus helpfully provided some research—unprompted, Harold notes wryly—for him to work with as a seemingly starting point.The camera light of his monitor blinks several times, and Harold sighs; it seems his Machine is inappropriately excited to further test the process.

_‘The Five Love Languages’,_ he reads with growing dismay as his monitor blinks patiently back at him.It’s hard enough grappling with one.But _five_?Which one will actually _work_?

His monitor flashes, and he purses his lips.“You want me to try _all_ of them?” he asks in disbelief.

His computer gives a satisfied whirr, and he takes that as an affirmative.He sighs again.“Very well then,” he concedes with resigned dread.“I hope you realise that pursuing all five options also quintuples the probability of failure.”

His mobile phone buzzes, and he stills at the text message he receives.

_JOHN REESE IS WORTH THE RISK._

He exhales slowly and stares at his computer’s camera, which blinks back at him knowingly.He offers it a small, shaky smile.

“He is,” Harold softly agrees.

 

* * *

  ** _1) Receiving gifts_**  

* * *

 

John stares at the box waiting for him in the Library the following morning.It’s plain and nondescript, except for its size.It is, in fact, huge enough that it looks disturbingly like a coffin, which Harold has only belatedly realised, and he has tried to lessen its intimidating impact by placing a cheery purple ribbon on top of it to signify what it actually is.

“It’s a gift, Mr. Reese.For you,” Harold explains as he clasps his hands behind him, rocking on his heels to hide how nervous he’s feeling.

John’s gaze flickers to him then, his expression seemingly torn; there’s gratitude and amusement there, but Harold can’t help but note a touch of wariness, which perhaps can’t be helped.“Thanks Finch, but what’s the occasion?You’ve already given me an apartment for my birthday.”

Harold shrugs in what he hopes is a nonchalant way.“I don’t think an occasion is required to give gifts to someone you care about.”

He catches the startled look in John’s eyes, and Harold quickly averts his gaze; perhaps he has already said too much.He gestures at the box.“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asks casually, hoping he doesn’t sound too pushy or plaintive.Briefly he is seized with terror: what if John doesn’t like it?

Some of his fear must have shown on his face, because the way John looks at him then immediately gentles.“I’m sure it’s going to be amazing, whatever it is,” John assures him with a smile.Harold watches as John slowly unties the ribbon, his movements deliberately careful so as to not damage it or the box, and Harold can’t help but smile fondly at the thoughtful gesture. 

All eagerness in John’s face promptly disappears as soon as he lifts the lid and sees what’s inside.

Harold hesitates.“I… hope it’s up to your standards?” he asks timidly.

Slowly, John puts the lid down on the table without taking his gaze off the box’s contents, as if he can’t quite believe his own eyes.“Finch,” John starts, and stares. “I thought you said you didn’t like guns?”

“Yes, well,” Harold clears his throat, hoping to cover some of his embarrassment. Perhaps… he has gone a _little_ overboard. 

He watches as John takes out the firearms one by one: handguns, revolvers, derringers, rifles, shotguns, semiautomatics, even a machine gun.The reverence with which John handles each one is fascinating for Harold to observe—it’s not dissimilar to the way Harold runs his hands over the leather-bound covers of his beloved first-editions in the Library—before he is startled at the darkened aura John suddenly exudes.

“Finch,” Johns says as his grip tightens on the machine gun and he fixes his steely gaze on Harold, “are we preparing for something?”

Harold’s eyes widen as he realises what John is asking—a soldier through and through, he’s immediately preparing for _war_.“There is no imminent danger, Mr. Reese,” he quickly hastens to reassure him.“Not to the city or to any civilian—”

“Or to _you_?” John interjects, his voice pitched dangerously low.

“Or to me,” Finch clarifies, his chest warming at the thought that John’s immediate protective instinct is directed toward _him_ above anything else.“I assure you, the Machine would’ve sent us an advance warning about anything we should prepare ourselves for.”

He sees John visibly relax.“Then,” John asks, with obvious confusion, “what is all of _this_ for?”

Harold lets the tension bleed out of his own frame, wistfully acknowledging that he really isn’t good at this; he has caused John unnecessary worry, and he has to rectify that.“As I said, Mr. Reese, it’s for you,” Harold tells him with a smile.John, not quite satisfied with that answer, tilts his head, encouraging Harold to go on.“With our line of work, I’ve come to realise the necessity of being prepared, most especially for your safety, and I’ve concluded that despite my… misgivings about weapons in general, it is more prudent for you to be provided with the proper firearms.”

John raised his eyebrows.“Proper, meaning…?”

“Meaning it’s about time you get equipped with arsenal that you did not acquire through repossession from rather unsavoury characters.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitches in amusement.“You want me to stop stealing them from criminals.”

Harold huffs.“Yes, that, exactly,” he concedes with a wry grin, before he schools his expression, letting John know how serious he is.“I must confess that I am often anxious about the fact that whenever you acquire your weapons, Mr. Reese, we are never certain of their original source, and therefore we can’t check whether they are functional enough to be certain that they won’t compromise you while you’re in the field.”

Understanding dawns in John’s eyes.“You’re worried about me.That’s why you got me this.”

Harold blinks, before his own gaze softens.“I always worry about you, Mr. Reese,” he murmurs, and there it is again, that look of surprise in John’s eyes, and Harold feels his heart twist at how John has lived so long without someone looking after him that he’s somehow completely taken aback whenever he realises that he now has someone who cares enough to _worry_ about him, like this.

Harold wants, so badly, to make up for all that time John has lived a life without having someone.. _care_ for him, like this.

“Every time I send you out there, Mr. Reese, to protect our Numbers, I’m always keenly aware of my responsibility to ensure your safety and protection.And I realise that most of the time, my assistance isn’t always enough.”

“Finch—”

He silences John’s protest with a raised hand and a gentle smile, even as he fails to keep the bitter self-deprecation out of his voice.“And despite the way I’m always at the brink of a heart attack every time you choose to risk your life, Mr. Reese,” he continues dryly, making light of his words to cover the way he is shifting under the intensity of John’s gaze, “I trust wholeheartedly in your capability to protect both the Numbers, and yourself.”

He shuffles forward to peer at the box’s contents, already knowing what he’ll find, because he’s the one who acquired them.

“You risk your life everyday to protect us all, Mr. Reese,” he murmurs, running his fingers gingerly over the deadly cylinders of titanium and steel.“The least I can do… is to provide you with my token protection.This way,” he adds firmly, “you will never have to worry about the reliability of your weapons, because you will always be sure of its source.”

Warm, rough, callused fingers settle over his own, stilling their movement over the guns.He blinks, looks up—and his breath catches at the open wonder in John’s gaze, simmering with an intensity that makes Harold’s fingers curl.

John’s own fingers slip between his, holding on.

“Thank you,” John says simply, sincerely.

John’s thumb brushes over Harold’s pulse, making it quicken, and Harold drops his gaze so John won’t see the flush that suddenly suffuses his cheeks.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Reese,” Harold says softly.“Always.”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

* * *

  _ **2) Words of affirmation**_

* * *

  

Harold smiles as Bear woofs happily at him, and gives the Malinois an affectionate pat on the head.Bear wags his tail in warm welcome, before turning his attention back to the chew toy he was enthusiastically gnawing and destroying as his master shuffles inside the library.

Harold blinks, pausing by the couch several feet from his computer desk.His chair is already occupied.

He hesitates.“Is there anything I can help you with, Mr. Reese?”

It takes a while for John to look up at him, as if visibly pulling himself from a daze.“I received a call earlier this morning,” he begins slowly, wonderingly.

“… Ah,” Harold says haltingly, knowing it wasn’t him, considering they don’t have a Number to work on at the moment.“From who?” he can’t help but curiously ask.

John meets his gaze steadily.“The Machine.”

Concern immediately overtakes surprise; the Machine only ever contacts John during God Mode.“Is she under attack?”

“That was my first thought too,” John murmurs, “except… she kept repeating the same string of characters, over and over. It wasn’t even the code for a Number.”

Harold waits, but it seems like John is lost in thought once again. “Did you figure out what it was?” he prompts.

“Yes.” John’s eyes fall close as he takes a deep breath. Harold begins to feel a mixture of worry and intrigue, with John looking more stoically terrified than he has ever seen him—and this is _John_ , who has lived through murders and terrorist attacks, and has faced criminals and violence on a near-daily basis.

He watches as John’s eyes flutter open, his features steeling into a look of determination, before John looks straight at him.

“The Machine was leading me to an audio file on this very computer.”

Harold feels his stomach drop to his feet, the world spinning dizzyingly around him. His lungs seem to have lost the function to breathe.

“She was giving me the password,” John says quietly.

Feeling his knees give out on him, Harold lets himself drop on the couch, ungraceful in his stupor. “Did…” he swallows through a suddenly dry mouth, “did you listen to it?” he asks the floor, unwilling to look into John’s eyes anymore.He can feel John’s gaze burning onto the side of his neck; he feels scrutinised, pinned helplessly in place, like a butterfly under a glass case.

In response, Harold hears the tapping of keys, the click of a mouse—and after the first few seconds of the quiet static of an audio recording, he hears his own voice from the speakers.

“ _I avoid speaking your name in conversation  
__throwing it to the air as if it were nothing”_

Harold squeezes his eyes shut, feeling as if his heart is being frayed forcefully open.

“ _more than an assumption of you; it is my last  
__mode of defence. The last item of clothing  
__to discard before I realise I’m naked in public.”_

He feels his entire body suffusing with heat, the exposed skin above the neck of his collar burning hotly as he knows, _he knows_ , that John is watching him as they both listen to the sound of his own voice. He feels raw, flayed open, knowing that John is hearing these words.

Dimly, he spares a moment of anger at the Machine for betraying him like this, before it’s swiftly subsumed by resigned dejection.

He has known, for quite some time now, that it was only a matter of time before John knows.

Because everyone already knows, anyway.

“ _Because they can hear it in my voice. I know.”_

He hasn’t made an effort to conceal it, that time when he needed to say it, over and over. He knows they all have heard it in his voice—and hears it still, even now, even as he has tried belatedly to bury it again, shamefaced in the aftermath, knowing that it doesn’t even matter now. No one mentions it to him, because no one needs to.

It’s why Sameen stubbornly stayed, why Lionel went above and beyond what was asked of him, why even Root reached out to him at the _ache_ they have all heard in his voice, that time when he needed to say it.

Over, and over, and over.

“ _Even in that one short syllable that means  
__everything and nothing; your name is as common  
__as you are rare. As easy as you are not.”_

He’s made no effort to conceal it, but he has never revealed the reason behind it. They have all suspected, he knows, but he has never confirmed it.

Until then. Until _this_.

“ _As simple as love should be, but never is._ ”

Harold wonders now if John has known all along, too. If the gentle smiles aimed his way all this time had been a rueful apology, a kindness in sparing his feelings; a subtle message to keep his distance, a deliberate shielding from him, a conviction that John doesn’t want to be known.

Doesn’t want to be found.

He ruins the perfect crease of his tailored pants as his fingers crumple into fists on his lap.

“ _But when I’m alone, I tie my tongue softly  
__round the familiar sound, as if pronouncing  
__with conviction the phonetics of desire”_

He feels something inside him coil tightly into trepidation and choking fear; he wonders, dimly, if this is how it feels like to stand in front of a firing squad, his heart the open target, the trigger on John’s hand.

“ _will cause time to pause just long enough”_

He wonders if he himself should’ve known the answer all along. That perhaps all this time, he’s simply been living in denial all along, delaying the inevitable truth of finally knowing why.

“ _for the earth to hear me naming my loss.”_

_…_ Why John didn’t stay.

The static of the audio recording abruptly stops. He hears the creaking of a chair as John leans forward to close the file with an audible click; Harold realises with a start that it’s the first time John has _moved_ since the recording started playing.

Shocked into movement himself, he feels all the breath leave his lungs in one slow exhale; he feels all his defences crumble along with it.

John has just heard his heart, and is about to become the judge of it.

Silence falls between them, tense and palpable; the ticking of his wristwatch is abnormally loud, amplifying the seconds counting down to the moment Harold’s heart breaks.

It’s John, finally, who speaks. “When did you record this?” he asks softly.

Harold closes his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath, feeling deeply, bonelessly _tired_. “After you told me you couldn’t stay,” he answers just as quietly.

Summoning all the courage he hasn’t known he has in reserve, Harold finally tears his gaze up from the floor he’s been intently studying to look at John’s face, desperately afraid of what he’ll see.

John is staring back at him, looking just as vulnerable as he feels.

Harold feels his heart jump to his throat, and he forcefully shoves it back down. It thunders against his chest, as if seeking to escape the confines of his ribs and leap straight into John’s hands.

“Why?” John whispers.

Harold stares at him, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, at a loss on how to answer. He wants to say: _because I was grieving the loss of you, as much as I had been grieving the loss of her, too, and this was the only way I could deal with that grief._ He wants to say: _because I watched you walk away without looking back, and knew I had no right to ask you to stay_. He wants to say: _because I watched you grieve for her and wondered if the love you felt for her was the same kind of love I felt for you, and I carried the guilt and the burden of responsibility in failing to protect that happiness you could have had with her._

He wants to say: _because I mourned the loss of the life and the love I wanted to have with you; because I mourned that I had been too late to let you know._

_Because you already made the decision to leave._

In the end, he says the only reason he can give, because it’s the only reason that encompasses it all.

“Because it was the only thing I had left of you.”

He hears John’s sharp intake of breath. “… My name?”

Harold can’t help but smile wanly at the puzzled intonation of the question: part wonder, part disbelief. “It was… the only reminder I had that you were ever really here with us.” _With me._ “To remind myself that you had once been a part of our work, knowing… that you were never coming back.”

He tears his gaze away, unwilling to look straight into the muzzle of John’s rejection all over again. “We… worked on a few Numbers before you got on that plane to Italy.” _Before I followed you._ “Miss Shaw, Detective Fusco, even Miss Groves… they must have heard it.” He chuckles hollowly under his breath. “I must have uttered your name a hundred different times, in a hundred different ways.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the touch of John’s hands on his knees; he hasn’t even heard John’s approach, swept as he is inside his own head, caught in a cacophony of memory and emotion. He stares at the way John is kneeling before him now, like a sinner before an altar, and it all feels _wrong_ somehow, because Harold knows he certainly isn’t a god, incapable of bestowing redemption he can’t even give _himself_.

“John?”

He doesn’t understand the naked adoration in John’s gaze, looking up at him as if he’s a _miracle._

“That’s one,” John murmurs.

Harold can only stare at him in utter confusion. “… What?”

Smiling gently back at him, John reaches up to cradle Harold’s jaw, and the fleeting, butterfly caress sparks shivers down Harold’s spine. He can’t help the shudder that shoots through him then, can’t help the way his eyelids flutter close. “ _John_ …”

“That’s two,” John breathes; his other hand has reached up to caress Harold’s other cheek, thumb tracing the hollow under his eye, beneath his glasses, and Harold desperately has to look at him then.

“It would have killed me to hear you grieve for me,” John fiercely declares, banked passion both in his eyes and in his voice, and Harold is _moored,_ anchored in its intensity, the depth of it overwhelming him. “I can’t ever forgive myself for this— _pain_ I caused you, but—”

“ _John_ —”

“That’s three,” John laughs softly, suddenly, and Harold’s eyes widen at the sight of John so... _uninhibited_ , like this. John’s gaze turns tender as his fingers rest on the corner of Harold’s mouth.

“But even though I don’t deserve this redemption, I’d like to spend the rest of my life learning and memorising those one hundred ways,” he murmurs, crow’s feet crinkling affectionately. “Ninety-seven now, as you’re generous enough to already give me three, tonight.”

Harold stares at him, feeling his chest expand painfully in fearful, debilitating _hope_. “John…”

“Ninety-six.” John is full-on smiling now, and his hands find Harold’s, tangling their fingers together between them on Harold’s lap, clutching tightly with a solemn vow, words accompanying the gesture that already speaks volumes.

“I’m staying, Harold,” he promises softly. “For _good_.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original poem by renowned Singaporean poet **Tania De Rozario** , entitled " ** _A Hundred Ways To Say Your Name_** "


End file.
